


Collide, Connect

by RibsGrowBack



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: F/M, First Time, Gender Dysphoria, POV Second Person, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RibsGrowBack/pseuds/RibsGrowBack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kink meme fill for FTM!Dave and MTF!Rose's first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collide, Connect

Your relationship with Dave is a beautiful disaster.  
  
Your relationship with Rose is like a supernova: bright and devastating.  
  
Pale twins collide and separate, attract and repulse, reach out and recoil.  
  
 _Collide._  
  
Rose is tall and stately, her voice a melodious baritone. Her hands are the perfect size to cup your face, to spread across your shoulder blades like wings, to circle your rib cage and lower and lower. You worship the ribs that you count with your lips, the flat planes of her chest that you cup in your hands the same way you would fondle any other breast.  
  
Dave is tiny and full of fire. He's an object in motion that will stay in motion regardless of resistance from an outside force--he's all swagger and posturing and poker face and he seems ten feet tall until you capture him in your arms and realize that he barely brushes your collarbone. But he pulls you down by your thin white hair and devours your mouth with skittish passion and you forget to be self-conscious.  
  
 _Separate._  
  
Rose's deft fingers brush the rough fabric of your binder, and you push her away. Suddenly you are all too aware of the fact that there is no hardness in your pants, that your ribs and chest ache, that there's a foreign terrible wetness spreading in the no-man's land between your thighs. She reaches for you, tries to reassure you, but you shake your head, replace your shades. Flash her a fake smile, spin a long metaphor full of irony and banter. Put up your shields, become her brother because right now you can't bear to be her lover.  
  
Dave slides on top of you, his hands working under your shirt, cupping the chest that you're all too aware that you don't have. Your breath flutters and you press against him, feel his hips press into yours. There's a dull ache at the base of your spine, a pleasant fire low in your belly. An abhorrent hardness tucked under your skirt. You push him off, too aware of the slight scratch of your face against his, too aware that the roughness lines your jaw and not his. He leaves, pausing in the grey metal doorway on this grey metal rock to look at you with so much sadness and fondness that your heart might break if you still had one.  
  
 _Attract._  
  
Dave pulls you on top of him, hooks a hand under your knee and wraps your leg around his waist. You hold him so close that your bodies could melt together, meshing perfectly like matching puzzle pieces. Your kisses feel like melting chocolate, like warm wet silk. Words rush through your head, _sibilant, pernicious, vermilion, auspicious_ \--beautiful words, words that you've collected like colored stones and whisper into his ear, against his lips. Linguistic dirty talk, auditory gemstones. They tumble from your lips into his, and you trace their syllables along his tongue. He smiles against your lips, drinks in your words like fine wine.  
  
Rose is the quiet after a rainstorm, she's cold clear water after a rooftop strife under the Texas sun. You suck and kiss marks like rosebuds into her bone-china skin, and her breath flutters like it has wings and can fly away. She's music, she's pounding bass, she's a flute played by gods with silver tongues. Rose Lalonde is the songs that you compose every time she touches you, the songs that you moan into her mouth and ears and against her perfect milk-pale skin. You want to capture everything about her, you want to photograph the arch of her back, her long white lashes. You want to write music about the crescents of her fingernails, to match beats to each perfect vertebra of her spine. You sing this to her as your bodies entwine, each note a prayer, each exhalation of music against her skin a benediction.

  
_Repulse._  
  
Dave Strider is insufferable. He's repressed and immature and he's a puzzle too easy and too hard to solve. Something in you aches to _fix_ him, to put together his broken pieces and make him whole again. Dave is a Christmas present marked "some assembly required," with instructions only in Chinese and batteries not included. He is the perfect challenge and an unwinnable game. He's so frustrating that you want to scream. He's the knight that you need but not the one you deserve. (You could never deserve him, he's too marvelous and too terrible.) He shines bright clean white where you have been tainted with horrorterrors. He has what you covet and can't appreciate it, but you're just as guilty as charged. Dave Strider is your polar opposite and your other half and sometimes you think you hate him for it.  
  
Rose frustrates you to no end. Her perfectly painted lips curve into a smirk that you sometimes want to smack off her face, if you hadn't learned at your brother's knee that it's never cool to hit a lady. Sometimes you growl to his memory that she's no lady, she's a Jezebel in disguise. She's ice-cold and as distant as the Furthest Ring, unreadable and unflappable and able to see through you like you're made of glass and then mock you for it. In front of her, you are naked--not a coolkid, not a ninja, not a Knight. Simply Dave, simply yourself. Simply something too terrifying and repulsive to confront. Rose Lalonde is the crack in your armor, the medium who turns your ironclad brain into a crystal ball, and sometimes you think you hate her for it.  
  
 **Connect.**  
  
Dave's mouth brushes against yours, featherlight and rich as cream.  
  
Rose's fingertips raise goosebumps along your arms, along your ribs, along your hips.  
  
He slides your shirt off reverently, his hands and lips stroking your body like you are a sacred shrine, like you're the goddess that you have always wanted to be. He moans when he sees you, as if you're somehow too beautiful for him to stand.  
  
She ghosts her hands under your shirt, over your binder, tracing pecs instead of breasts across your chest. Her breath tickles your neck, her tongue traces patterns and words across your throat.  
  
Your bodies slide, meld, separate and collide. Skin brushes hot skin, a padded bra slides against a tight binding. Your bodies are art, sacrifices laid out on an altar of binding and padding and surgical steel.  
  
Dave fingers the hem of your skirt, his eyebrows quirked in a question he is afraid to ask. You can't reply, can only pull his face down and kiss the answer into his parted lips, against his velvet tongue. Your skirt slides off like silk, and he follows it down your legs, traces his way back up your thighs with long wet kisses that leave you shivering.  
  
Rose pulls you against her, slides her hands down your hips, dips her fingers just below the hem of your boxers. She pulls your pants off, tosses them away, pushes you down with her hips and her hands. Your legs circle hers, holding her close to you, sliding her against you in white-hot waves of pleasure. You long to write a song around her featherlight moans, to use your own gasps as a backbeat to the music she makes.

  
Lips catch against lips, tongues glide across hot flesh, down imperfect scarred bodies too beautiful to call flawed. Your explorations are awkward and new but honey-smooth and sugar-sweet. You map new flesh with your fingers and mouths and tongues, go boldly where no man or woman has ever gone before. There are awkward pauses, there are legs caught in a tangle of sheets, there are whispers of "is this okay," of "do that again, no not that, _that_ ," there is rumpled hair and embarrassing faces and awkward angles but neither of you would give this up for all the gold in Prospit.  
  
Your bodies slide together, flesh connects and parts. With your eyes squeezed shut, who can tell whose parts are whose? The only sounds are of soft cries, baritone and soprano, of gasps and shreds of jewel-bright words and bars of music. Your bodies are entwined, connected, your legs tangled together in a delicious Gordian knot.  
  
Rose rocks her hips into yours, and you see music flash in sunbursts behind your eyes.  
  
Dave pulls you close against his bound chest, and joy flares deep within you as bright and hot as the Green Sun.  
  
Rose breathes her beautiful words against you, until the slick cut-glass syllables all become a breathy " _Davedavedavedave_ \--"  
  
Dave cups your face in his hands, kisses each of your eyelids with fever-hot lips. His gasps are flapping crow's wings.  
  
Her eyes open, bore holes into yours as she comes with a shudder against you.  
  
He stares at you like you're all he can see as he shakes with climax.  
  
After, you lie in each others' arms, bodies cooling slowly, breathing slow and thick and sweet. Every movement is lazy-slow, every muscle burns with sweet fire.  
  
Rose's lips quirk into a shy grin, her smile the black-painted twin of yours. (You kissed that paint off hours ago.)  
  
Dave's eyes are open and vulnerable, but you can't bring yourself to take him apart. (You think you might have just put him back together.)  
  
He whispers, "Where doing it man."  
  
She whispers, "Where _making this hapen._ "  
  
Rose and Dave lie entwined, sticky with sweat and sex. They drink in each the sight of each other with unconstrained joy, because tonight, on this rock in the depths of time and space, between these alchemized sheets in this cold metal lab, tonight, they are perfect. They fit like puzzle pieces, each the other's perfect match and arch enemy, each stuck in the body that the other covets.  
  
Tonight, none of that matters.  
  
Your name is Dave Strider.  
  
Your name is Rose Lalonde.  
  
And tonight, you are whole.


End file.
